The Crow Still Sings
by Scribblesinink
Summary: Chibs has no clue where to even start fixing the club. Lyla has an idea. Part of the "...Made You King"-series.


**Author notes**: Part of the _...Made You King_-series. Spoilers for the S7 finale. Thanks to Tanaqui for betaing.

**THE CROW STILL SINGS**

**By: Scribblesinink**

"Mother of God." With a disgruntled curse, Chibs shoved the club ledger away from him, tossed his reading glasses on top and rubbed at his stinging eyes. He missed Bobby. He missed Jax. Fuck, he even missed Juice.

He poured himself another drink. He was alone at the bar at Red Woody. The other guys had left long since, off to Diosa to get laid, or back home, or wherever the hell else they went these days once Friday church was over. Only the light in the production office was still on, the muted sounds of recorded voices drifting out into the main room: Lyla, going over the day's takes, or writing up notes for post. Chibs had no idea what it all meant, but she seemed to know what she was doing, so at least one thing was going right.

Jax was two weeks dead, one week in the ground, and already Chibs had no fuckin' clue how to keep the kid's legacy alive and whole. He raised his drink in salute. "Sorry, Jackie. Shoulda picked some other guy." Quinn, maybe. At least he'd led the Nomads for a while, before they folded.

Hefting the bottle in his other hand, he eyed its contents critically. Perhaps he could get drunk enough for Jarry to pick him up and take him home again. Would take his mind off of the shite Jax had left him with for a little while.

But he'd promised Jax he'd do him proud—not quite realizing all the crap that came with the president's flash. Like refereeing black and brown and white, as they settled into new territories and alliances. Or figuring out how to get the cash to buy Scoops, when the club's books could've been written in medieval French for all the sense they made. Diosa was a mess, too—damn Nero for takin' a hike when he had. And as for T-M…. No way Wendy would be able to sell the place for decent money in its current state.

And then there was all the club shit that had landed on him to make right…. Samcro was the mother charter, the one all the others had set their club compass to. But word had gone out about the mayhem vote, and the reason for it, and nobody believed for one damned second that Jax had shot Hap and made a run for it until a semi had conveniently smeared him across 580. Only the presidents of the forum knew the whole truth, and rumor and gossip was flying wild, and Chibs had no fuckin' clue how to fix that mess.

"Hey." The sound of a door closing and Lyla's voice softly calling him drew Chibs from his brooding. "Whatcha still doin' here? Thought you guys would be long gone."

He squinted at her, drunk enough he had trouble focusing. "Jus' thinkin'," he slurred, raising his glass at her. "Wanna join me?"

She smiled. "Thanks but no thanks." She offered an apologetic shrug. "Still gotta drive home."

"Right." He threw back the contents of his glass, relishing the burn down his gullet.

"So, what were you thinking about?" Lyla climbed onto a stool next to him, propping her elbow on the bar and resting her head in her palm.

He gave her another squinty look. "This 'n that."

She chuckled, taking the bottle with her free hand and pouring him a fresh shot. "It's tough, isn't it? With so many people gone?" She sighed. "Jax. Gemma. Bobby…. Opie." She snorted back a sniffle. "It's stupid, but I still miss him so damned much."

"Aye." That was another thing Chibs didn't want to think about. He still woke up at night some times from dreams of seeing Ope's head getting bashed in with that pipe. _I got this._ Jax's last words to the club had been the same as Ope's.

They were both silent for a while, Chibs watching Lyla from the corner of his eye as she gazed off at something only she could see. She was very pretty, he decided, with smooth skin and plump lips and—his gaze lowered—a lovely rack. Maybe she would—.

He stopped that train of thought before it could reach the station. He was drunk, but he wasn't _that_ drunk. He wasn't gonna ruin the one good thing the club still had going for it because he couldn't handle all the other shit piled up on his plate.

"Hey." Lyla straightened up, her gaze finding his again. "I got an idea."

"Yeah?" Apparently, she had no clue where his thoughts had been going, and he was glad for it.

"We almost finished shooting _RoboHooker_." At his slow blink, she grinned. "Tag line: _Virginity has a new enemy_. Mechanoids are the new craze."

Chibs shook his head ruefully.

"Anyway," Lyla motioned with her hands, "we need a few more days at most. And it's Red Woody's tenth production. We should have a wrap party. A real one."

Again, he looked at her in silence.

"It'll be good for the guys, I think," she went on, growing more enthusiastic by the second. "And we could get some of the girls from Diosa to help out? Oh, and—." She paused, suddenly looking uncertain. "Maybe, uh, those guys that were here for Jax? The other Sons? They seemed to enjoy that rough cut Quinn showed them."

For a long moment, Chibs gaped, his alcohol-soaked mind unable to process what she was talking about. Then it filtered through: she meant the presidents' forum. He opened his mouth to bark an "Absolutely not," and then snapped his mouth shut again without speaking as the rest of her suggestion sank in, thinking hard.

"Sorry," she muttered. "I didn't mean—."

"No, darlin', ye might be onto something." He set his glass down. "Clever lass."

She colored slightly. "Well, I don't know about that. But Samcro was there for me when I needed help, so I'm happy to return the favor."

He gave her a nod of encouragement. "Go set it up. I'll tell the guys." He got up from his stool, feeling better for having an actual plan. A honest-to-god bash was exactly what this club needed. And they'd make one thing clear to the other charters: Samcro might be down. But they were far from out.

**Disclaimer**: this story is a transformative work based on the Fox 21/FX Productions/Linson Entertainment/Sutter Ink television series _Sons of Anarchy_. It was written for entertainment only; the author does not profit from it. Please do not redistribute elsewhere without author attribution.


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